Free Ghosts of Manhattan by George Mann

steam. Pedestrians continued to spill from the station exit, flooding the sidewalks with their loose tongues and even looser morals. Drains exhaled columns of steam; the breath of the underworld rising unbidden into the physical realm. Gabriel marched on. It felt to him as if the city were somehow alive, as if it were watching him with impassionate eyes from every window, from every corner or shadowy doorway. The thought made him shudder. He wanted to stop for a cigarette, but instead he pressed on, turning a corner into a fierce breeze that rattled down the avenue, bringing a cold bite in off the ocean. He ducked his head and continued on his way.
    Half an hour later, just as he was beginning to wish that he'd taken a taxi after all, Gabriel rounded the block and turned onto East 14th Street. He blew into his hands to stave off the chill. The Sensation Club, or Joe's, as the regulars knew it, was between Fifth Avenue and Broadway, down a short flight of steps in the basement of a tenement building and behind an unmarked red door. The police knew about the place-of course they did-and knew also that it was patronized by a small-time crook named Johnny Franco, but they were also aware that the club served a valuable purpose. It kept the city's rich clientele away from the bigger, uglier drinking dens, and it kept Johnny Franco out of trouble. So they steered clear of the place, and Johnny went about his business, serving illegal gin to the elite of the city, reveling in the perceived radiance of the company he kept. Poor Ariadne had failed to see the charm of it all, but Gabriel knew it for what it was-an extension of the perpetual party, a home from home. And besides, Celeste was there.

    Gabriel rapped on the door, and presently the handle turned and a small crack appeared between the door and the jamb. He leaned closer. He could hear the distant strains of music, see a bright red light shining somewhere on the other side of the door. He turned his head. There was a scuffling sound from within, and then the door swung inward and a beaming man in a tuxedo was standing before him, waving him through to the mysterious club beyond. "Good evening, Mr. Cross. It's nice to see you again." The doorman, a wiry little fellow with a neatly trimmed beard and darting brown eyes, ushered him forward and swiftly closed the door behind him. "You're just in time. She'll be on in a moment."
    Gabriel nodded and shrugged off his overcoat. He handed it to the doorman. "Thank you, Clive."
    The doorman cocked his head. He looked concerned. "Have your hurt yourself, sir?"
    Gabriel looked down at his bandaged hand. "Oh, it's nothing, Clive. I had an incident in the car yesterday and gave it a knock. It'll be fine in a few days."
    "Glad to hear it, sir."
    Gabriel watched as the other man disappeared into a small cloakroom just off the lobby. Then, feeling the need for a smoke, he reached into his pocket, withdrew his cigarette case, and tapped out one of the small white sticks. He pulled the tab, and a moment later the sweet aroma of smoldering tobacco mingled with the myriad other scents in the club: alcohol, sweat, and cologne.
    Pausing just a moment longer to smooth his rumpled jacket, he passed along a corridor under the red glow of the lamps, turned a corner, and then descended a short flight of steps to the main amphitheater of the club. The staircase wound round in a tight spiral, and as he emerged into the dimly lit hall below, he had the sense of stepping into another world; a hidden world, a fantasia of light and sound and debauchery, simmering just beneath the regular layers of the city. People laughed and caroused, sitting together in small cliques at a series of tables arranged around a large stage area, upon which a young woman-a pretty girl he'd never seen before-was performing a popular jazz tune. To the left of the stage was a long bar, with a smat tering of people seated on stools along its length, all watching the girl on the stage